


If I Could Have Your Sky

by EmeraldWaters



Series: The Beacon Hills Wolf Pack and the Utterly Random and Very Dangerous Situations They Find Themselves In [3]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Actually fluffy as hell, F/M, Fluff, Lydia Martin - Character Study, Non-Explicit Sex, OOC Lydia?, Unrealistic Expectations of Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-21
Updated: 2015-10-21
Packaged: 2018-04-27 10:05:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,989
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5044135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldWaters/pseuds/EmeraldWaters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three months after their kiss in Club Aconite and Jordan hasn't done more then kiss her goodnight.</p><p>It bothers Lydia more than she cares to admit.</p><p>*Ignores Season 5*</p>
            </blockquote>





	If I Could Have Your Sky

**Author's Note:**

> This is the second Marrish-related story and is a sequel to 'Darkness and Disco Lights.'
> 
> Title is from Stan Walker's 'Light It Up.'
> 
> DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of these characters, they belong to Jeff Davis. I will not make any money from this.
> 
> Comments Welcome :)

* * *

 

Admittedly - through clenched teeth and veils of thickly-constructed denial - Lydia is afraid. She should be pleased because respectfulness is a rare quality, but every time Jordan looks at her, she feels like she's burning.

_Rewind._

It had been three months since the kiss in Club Aconite. Three months in which he hadn't done anything more than kiss her goodnight.

The more days that passed, the more she realized the feeling wasn't frustration.

 

* * *

 

Ever since Lydia was thirteen - the night of her birthday in fact - her beauty had been her selling point. Her Father, the manipulative bastard he was - she obviously learnt it somewhere - told her she was the most beautiful girl in Beacon Hills until she opened her mouth ("no boy wants a girl who spits mathematical facts like a bloody broken showerhead!"). Lost, young and impressionable, she'd taken her father's words to heart and for years she'd been that detached, cold-hearted bitch.

And so she wielded her looks shamelessly.

Sex had, undeniably, always been something Lydia was good at. Strategically-placed clothes to tease at underneath, people's eyes occupied by _just enough skin._ Sex was fun. Sex was pleasurable. And there was nothing wrong with that.

But until Prom night, when Stiles Stilinski had the audacity to demand a dance, she'd believed that was all that she was. Stiles had been the first to tell her she didn't need to hide her intelligence because it was as much a part of her as her beauty was. Sex appeal didn't have to be the only thing she defined herself by. The words of this gangly, nerdy boy who seemed to see through her so easily, resonated. So, ever since that fateful night, and with Allison as her guiding light, Lydia was no longer that girl she had pretended to be.

But with that revelation, layers of insecurity had also been exposed. With the amount of time passing and the inconsistent development of her powers, the frequent feeling of _notgoodenough_ runs barely beneath the surface these days.

It's only come to her attention recently, the way Jordan never seems to look. There are no lingering stares at her shorter hemlines and lower necklines, and only once did Lydia see the slight reddening of his ears. Several weeks ago she'd been caught in a random burst of summer rain and he offered her his jacket without a single glance at the way her sundress was plastered to her skin.

And maybe that's why she's fixated. Having of been so reliant on flaunting her beauty - regardless of her awareness of her other attributes - that the thought of Jordan not wanting her that way petrifies her.

Gnawing on her bottom lip in a way she denies until the end of her days, Lydia leaves for school - if one class can constitute as that - refusing to dwell any longer.

 

* * *

 

A week later, she's curled up on her armchair watching The Notebook. Everyone has prior plans so, to her dismay, she's spending Saturday night alone. _Again._ And if that's not bad enough, the past seven days in themselves have been eventless (it's always oddly quiet when Stiles is away).

When the doorbell rings, comfortable becomes eerie with one echoing sound and her mug is paused halfway to her lips.

Four years ago she wouldn’t have thought twice about opening the door but seeing the things she'd seen in the past six years had changed her. It would anyone.

Unable to deny the crawl of fear that climbs her spine, Lydia breathes slowly. _Stay in control_. Back pressed to the wall as she makes her way to the door, the small dagger - that’s with her at all times now - is picked up and hidden behind her back.

“Lydia?” A voice calls.

If she was anyone else she would've collapsed on the floor, muttering something like “Oh thank God,” but Lydia isn't, so she sets the knife on the table and opens the door as if nothing had crossed her mind.

“Sorry, I should’ve called first.” Jordan apologizes, green eyes flicking down and back to her face, “I didn’t mean to worry you."

Lydia is always struck by how well he can read her. Just by her stance he could tell how worried she’d been and usually all it takes is a look. Despite her reluctance to share her emotions, it always feels as if he can discern those innermost thoughts with a simple glance.

(Stiles had even once made a smartass comment about it, about Jordan being fluent in ‘Language of Lydia’ before they’d been dating. She was glad when Derek cuffed him on the head for that).

“This a social call Deputy?” She asks slyly, recovered, lips curling around the words and into a devious smile as she moves into his space. “Because otherwise I'm going to have to see a warrant.”

He's in black boots, black jeans and a navy half-sleeve jacket over a white shirt. His gun is in the holster at his hip as if he’s just come from work which, she supposes, he has.

“Remind me next time and I’ll book an appointment,” he fires back rolling his eyes almost fondly, standing tall above her.

She moves back to let him in and it’s him that moves into her space this time.

Hands on wood, Jordan braces himself against the table she's now leaning against with a small smile.

He brings his hand to his mouth a second later, huffing, and Lydia sees red tinging his fingers in the moment it takes him to jerk away.

“Knife,” she says in lieu of an apology, “let me get you something for that.”

“No need. Accelerated healing.”

_Pause._

“Oh, right.”

Inwardly, Lydia curses her stilted answer and the way the broken sentence fell from her lips. It's rare that she ever has to rack her brains for an appropriate answer but her thoughts have been rather preoccupied lately.

He follows her further into the hallway.

“Lydia, are you sure you’re alright?”

“Are you not attracted to me?” She blurts and great, she's turning into Stiles. Yet again cursing her lack of control, she asks like she’d meant to ask it, in her usual dry but simultaneously sharp tone. "Why haven't you kissed me?"

Jordan tucks his hands into his jacket pocket. His ears are red.

“As stupid it may sound I wanted to show you that I’m not just with you for the physical. That I respect all parts of you and I wanted to be sure I wasn’t pressuring you into anything.” He admits after a moment’s pause, somewhat sheepishly. “Not that you'd let me, but I still wanted to make your own decision about it.”

Something coils into her chest at his words. And it's just a nod to how perceptive and extremely astute Jordan is, that he knew somehow exactly what she wanted. That in the past few years how little control she's had. How, in his own way, he wanted to give a choice.

"Well then Deputy,” she says, every word dripping with unmistakable intent, “you gonna do something about it?”

His eyes flick momentarily down to her cute striped shorts and his old training shirt that spills off one shoulder and Lydia sees his pupils dilate.

With barely a moment’s pause, she’s pulled into his arms and their mouths meet - once, twice, in brief searing kisses before the third, which is deeper.

Lydia pulls away, sauntering down the hall, only looking over her shoulder when she sees he’s still in the same place. "You coming?" She asks, smirking at how quickly he moves.

When their mouths meet again it’s with a lot less control, despite the slow way his fingers brush her cheek. As she walks them backwards into her bedroom, Lydia refuses to make it easy, pausing to tug at his hair or to press biting kisses at the spot under his earlobe. And he groans into her mouth which makes her smirk because she's taunting him and he knows there's nothing he can do about it. 

 

* * *

 

Lydia pushes the door open to her room and scrambles to flick on the light, a task made harder by the line of kisses he’s pressing into her hairline. But she’s laughing at nothing which makes him chuckle.

_She's not used to slow and gentle. With Aiden it had been ripping clothes off as fast as possible and that’s all it had ever been. Quick. Over before you knew it, dressing in a hurry lest you get caught by the bell, or God forbid the janitor. Jackson on the other hand, always needed to be top, craving the control. There had been feelings deep down but everything else was detached._

Then Jordan’s hands brush the skin under her shirt and that train of thought is lost. His touch shoots through her veins like a drug and the spark flies across her skin, igniting in her bones.

Impatiently, she finishes the action for him, grabbing the hem and pulling it over her head, chucking the shirt to the side. Eyes locked on hers, he grips the collar of his own and drags it up and over his head, revealing the sculpted muscles she so rarely gets to look at. Teasingly, she wiggles out of her shorts, leaving her there standing in her underwear, all green lace and pale skin.

Lydia has decided she likes that look on his face.

She pulls him to her by his belt loops. The hands that had nimbly unzipped his jacket and swept it off his shoulders are the same that stutter over his buckle. These are the same hands that have held a bat against a Berserker and can steadily grip a paintbrush for hours and yet they stutter as they dip beneath his waistband.

She's never been nervous before. He sweeps away her doubts with feather-light kisses and the way his hand tangles itself in brilliant red curls. Barriers fall with each breath and it should petrify her the effortless way he passes each of her defenses but the thought is again chased away, this time by his hands dancing over her bra strap.

She’s also glad she had the foresight to shave her legs.

They fall back onto her bed clumsily, finally divested of every last piece of clothing. His skin is almost painfully hot when it first brushes hers but she soon gets used to the heat. He’s haloed by the light above, bare skin glowing in the semi-darkness. Her fingernail traces his lower lip and she feels him exhale against her finger before she pulls it away, dragging his bottom lip down slightly.

Jordan leans to kiss her once more. Music escapes his lips, humming, and the feeling skates to the very edges of her being. His hand skims over the swell of her chest once, then returns, smooth fingers dancing across exactly the right spots to make her gasp into his mouth until it finds the places where his hands are. He kisses the scars there gently (they mean as much to him as they do to her) but there's no pity in his eyes. She doesn't need it. It's never occurred to her to be ashamed of them.

Crawling backwards, Jordan presses rows upon rows of kisses down sweat-laden skin, grazing his teeth every so often. Halfway down, he looks up and grins, bottom lip still against the skin of her stomach and her heartbeat accelerates like the beating hooves of a galloping horse.

With an obscene movement of his body down hers, Jordan is suddenly kneeling on the floor, her legs thrown over his shoulders. Strong hands grip her thighs and the way he wiggles forward, closer, makes her laugh. Then his tongue is on her and she’s not laughing anymore. Warmth spirals through every cell in her body. Hands fisted in the sheets, her back bows, body arching off the bed. Pleasure washes her over like a wave and a broken-off moan escapes her throat.

Jordan moves back up her body, using one arm to pull her further up into the middle of the bed and refuses to let her return the favour. He rests against her until she’s recovered, and the few minutes are silent and slightly uncomfortable, if only because of the directness of his eyes on her face.

His chest is pressed to her stomach, his waist touching her thigh, and if Lydia was inclined to poetry she’d say how they fit together like a puzzle, but she’s not and that’s a ridiculous notion.

When she regains enough energy, she rolls them over so she’s above him, hair tumbling over her shoulders. He reaches up and sweeps his thumb gently across her cheek and it makes her smile. Rather playfully, Lydia aligns their hips together just to watch him groan, but moves back off him before he can get anymore friction, his hands chasing after her hips.

The way she crawls over to her bedside cabinet is decidedly unsexy but she can’t find herself to care. Not when he looks at her like that.

Unable to resist riling him up, Lydia throws the condom packet at his head and the indignation on his face makes her laugh, replaced by a surprised gasp as a growl escapes his throat and he pulls her to him.

Softening, his hand runs up her outstretched arm to where her hand is against the bed and she instinctively laces their fingers together.

It’s almost unbearably awkward at first, their hands collide and his hands are unsteady and at one point they actually hit heads but eventually they find a rhythm.

Her hips roll to his. Fluid, like a dancing tide. Nipping at her earlobe earns a surprised gasp, so he continues, his lips playfully trace the shell of her ear. The want is written in the way he holds her and he doesn't have to say the words out loud because she can hear them in the noises coaxed from his body.

This is intimate. Naked and raw. It's easy, the way he relinquishes control, only to reclaim it a second later. Lips and a talented tongue anchor her in the present.

Finesse is slipping. They're so tangled up in each other. Heat spirals out from the centre of every spot his fingers have been. Flames lick at her insides - metaphorically, Lydia holds no doubt that he wouldn't touch her if he didn't have complete control. Life began not only in flames but could end in it. So for them, it fits.

Teetering on the edge of a precipice, it doesn't take much until they both fall. Jordan’s hips stutter with a long-drawn out groan and his hand moves down to help her over the edge.

Glorious.

 

* * *

 

For the first time when she wakes, Lydia's first thought isn't of the usual trivial and materialistic. Green eyes already appraise her and the smile he bestows is nothing short of beautiful.

She groans into his chest, arm and left leg still thrown across his body where she's tucked into his side. The sheets pool around her lower back.

"You're turning me into a sap," Lydia accuses. _And incredibly honest._

Jordan's surprised laugh stutters when her head falls against his chest again, and she groans properly this time. “I promised Malia and Kira to meet them in two hours for shopping.”

His finger idly runs along one of the curls lying across her neck. "What time is it?"

The warmth she's cocooned in almost convinces Lydia to stay.

"9:45."

Jordan sits up abruptly, jostling her. "My shift starts in twenty minutes."

As annoyed as she is to be disrupted, Lydia can't help but find the horrified expression on his face comical. As obvious as it is that the Sheriff won't punish his favourite Deputy for being late to _desk duty,_ Jordan still has a thing about being on time.

"Use my shower. There's an flannel and towel lying on top of the basket. A spare toothbrush should be in the left drawer of the cabinet under the sink - it's blue. I'll have breakfast and a coffee ready by the time you get out. Then you'll just have to pick up your uniform," she instructs, tensing when the cool air hits her skin.

Nodding, somewhat smiling at her efficiency, Jordan slides out of bed in a display of grace that Lydia should've expected by now and organizes his clothes into a pile - originally all helpfully strewn across the room - while she stares blatantly at his ass as he walks into the bathroom.

"Keep up the good work Deputy."

She can practically hear him roll his eyes.

 

* * *

 

 As Lydia prepares a medium Americano (black) she has in her cupboard for him and two slices of toast, the domesticity of the scene is pretty terrifying.

 

* * *

 

Even as she drags Malia and Kira around the mall, she can feel the imprint of a kiss he'd placed on her cheek rushing out the door.

It keeps her checking her phone while the other two are in the changing rooms.Her phone vibrates and she really needs to figure out how Stiles manages to change the contact names without her knowing:

_Deputy Roast-Chicken | 01:13_

_I forgot to thank you for writing 'Lydia's Bitch' on my coffee cup this morning. It sparked a rather awkward and incredibly uncomfortable conversation with the Sheriff. I thought he was about to give me the sex talk._

_Lydia | 01:16_

_You're lucky I didn't write it on your forehead._

 

_Deputy Roast-Chicken | 01:20_

_What terrifies me is that I wouldn't put it past you._

 

* * *

 

They’re not perfect. They never will be.

She will always be too harsh with her words, scared of letting people get close and regardless of her efforts, too judgemental.

He will always be too warm and far too risky with his own life.

But moments like this, when they’re on the same page makes it all worth it.


End file.
